


Attic Light

by Tribs



Series: WG Pict Series - No Longer in Progress [1]
Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Attempted Demon Summoning, Attempted Kidnapping/Wightification, Canon Divergence, Childhood Friends, Deadname Usage, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Mind-Numbingly Boring Dinner Party, Miscommunication/Pict Thinking With Thirst, Rowdy Teens, Sexual Themes, Smoking, Trans Male Character, Underage Drinking, Visit Crandor™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 09:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16951809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tribs/pseuds/Tribs
Summary: Pict - the eldest of three book store children - and Jo - the governor's only child - met at the age of ten. He tried to pick her pocket, she tried to deck him, and they've been inseparable ever since.This is a collection of childhood snippets from 123 5E to 126 5E, mostly centered around Pict and Jo's early friendship. Also features their reunion in adulthood, and paves the way for their proper story arcs.2/18/2019 - Chapters 7 and 8 overhaul2/25/2019 - Context revision + Fixed Gav's voice





	1. Jo

Year 123 5E (16 years old)

* * *

 

I pushed up against the slats that covered the trapdoor to the bookshop's attic, jostling free whatever crusty sealant had last been used to try and keep us out. I sneezed as the shove sent flakes fluttering down, then swabbed my sleeve across my nose and went back to climbing through.

_Piss-poor attempt, Mam Vaughan._

Something wet and slick met my hands as I crawled through, nearly sending me stumbling back off the ladder, before I realized it was just El’s rain-soaked jacket.

_Little-assed bastard, bet she’s come through the damn window instead of fiddling with all this._

The attic was dark, so I fumbled for the lantern, only to realize it wasn't in its usual spot.

Something shifted.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled.

_… Don’t ye-_

_”BWAH!”_

_“AH!”_ I shrieked as her ragged frame lunged forward from behind a shelf, the lantern held close to her face. It illuminated gaunt features, blue eyes, and an awful, bug-eyed leer that made her look far too much like a damn corpse that had crept up the gutter and set up shop.

“EL! Ye _bastard!”_

She wheezed as I whapped her with my cap, nearly doubled over with tears and giggles. I just had to sigh and peck her on the top of the head.

 _“Don’t be doin’ that._ An’ after I went and brought ye a damn treat too, _the nerve!_ Fucker.”

She wiped at her eyes, grinning through aftershocks, as she unceremoniously plopped to the floor.  “You know we shouldn’t swear.”

“Psh, says ye! Worse’n the damn dockworkers.”

She took a cigarette out of her pocket, popped open the lantern, and held the tip up to the candle.  “Fuck me, guess I am.”

I watched as she took a drag, then crouched down and stole it for my own.  “Don’t go makin’ challenges ya can’t keep.”

She quirked an eyebrow and ran her tongue across her teeth.  “Implying I wouldn’t hold up?”

“Mmhm.”

“Suppose we’ll see.”

I winked, tossing down the wrapped muffin from my pocket.  “Cram this in yer mouth fer now. ‘S blueberry. Got it from dad, ‘e says hi.”

She leaned back onto her elbows and blew out a smoke ring.  “Hi, Jo’s dad.”

“Pfft.”  I scrubbed a hand through her hair.  “Says ya look like death, need ta eat more.”

“It’s just the old country in my ass.”

 _“Please!_ Malnourishment ain’t a thing in your blood, ‘s in your guts. Or what _ain’t_ in ‘em.”

“Have to keep the vacancy up for fingers.”

_“Gods!”_

“None of those up here.”

“Psh. Aye, ‘cept ‘Rak.”

“He’s the exception to the rule.”

“Always.”

“Did you bring the bottle?”

I pulled out the boza from the crook of my arm, inside my coat.  “Aye, snuck through the kitchens on the way out.” I unscrewed the loose cork and took a swig, then passed it down.  “What we doin’ tonight?”

She took her own mouthful, then a second.  “The usual.”

“Crime?”

“Always crime.”

“Nice.”


	2. El

Year 123 5E (16 years old)

* * *

 

"I'm a man."

I held back my breath, stomach curling into knots as I watched her, waiting for her to respond.

I exhaled as she snorted, smiling, eyes still closed where she reclined on the bed.

"Aye, makes sense."

"It does?"

"Mhm, explains why we were better friends.”  She sat up, crossing her legs and ruffling my hair.  “Guessin' this doubles as a break-up, aye?"

"I... Right."

“Jus’ with m’own preferences in mine, or yours too?”

“Mine too.”

"Then we'll have ta saddle up ‘n get a lad or four in here for ye."  She winked, sticking her tongue out.

"And a girl for you."

 _"Bah!_ As if I’d need help!"

"No more than I do!"

“Aye, just get yerself up posin’ how ye do, they’ll be trippin’ over each other.”

“More than you’ll have to do.”

“Psh, nah.”

“It’s true.”

She tried to shut me up by picking up a pillow and pressing it against my face. I just swatted it away and pulled her hat down.

“We’ll have to fend off lines of girls looking for you to put them in a headlock.”

_“El.”_

“And-”

“An’ we’ll be fendin’ off lines of chaps lookin’ to _put_ ye in a headlock.”

“Well, if you can’t handle four people or more-”

“- What ye doin’?”

_“Exactly.”_


	3. Jo

Year 123 5E (16 years old)

* * *

 

We hung over the fence slats, Dad’s fancy-assed ship and Draynor to our backsides, and stolen cups of wine nestled in our hands to the front. I pointed out to the other side.

“Y’know, heard talk o’ that ‘wilderness’ place. Reckon that’s it?”

“Looks gloomy enough.”

“Aye, ‘xactly.”

El took a sip, then squinted.  “But isn’t that a farm over there?”

“Nah, can’t be.”

“That’s a chicken, Jo.”

“Demonic chicken, aye.”

“... Are those a type of demon?”

“Ain’t nothin’ sayin’ they aren’t. We read about rats ‘n cats ‘n shit, no reason to say there ain’t more.”

“I suppose.”

“... Dare ya to go’n nab it.”

He didn’t miss a beat.  “Hold my cup.”

“There’s a lad!”


	4. El

Year 124 5E (17 years old)

* * *

 

I took another look back at the tome we’d stolen from downstairs before Mam could return it with the rest of the 'improper' books, still half-bundled in the plain wrapping paper I'd snuck it off in. It was authentic and it was _ours,_ rightfully propped up next to the messy circle of red paint and salt. It was close enough to the diagram, I figured, so I stood back up and dusted off my hands.

Jo stood somewhere behind me, battle-ready with a ridiculous gilded chair she’d brought from the manor.

“Just ‘n case!”  she’d said while proudly introducing it.

“You don’t have to-”  I’d tried to insist, only to get a:

“Like hell I don’t, they’ll be draggin’ yer scrawny ass right on off.”

“That’s the goal, isn’t it?”

And then we’d made some smug, crude gestures before tromping up to the current project.

“Think it’s done.”  I picked my cigarette back up, took a puff, then tapped it between my fingers, ignoring where the droppings smudged the salt.  “We’ve got more than enough candles.”

“Aye, liable to burn us all down with ‘em.”

“Plenty of kindling downstairs.”

She snorted.  “Well, Domnul El, ye reckon jus’ the chanting’s left?”

“As far as I can tell.”

“Aight.”  She shook the chair, eyes gleaming.  “Ready fer if we get the, eh, _unwanted_ types, too.”

I winked, draping a stolen curtain across my shoulders, and she winked back.

We both inhaled, eyes closed, and I spread my arms out in my best priestly impression.

“Veni, Daemonicas Cohortes!”

“Veni!”

“Carlem aber camerinthum purchai gabindo!”

“We’re butcherin’ this pronunciation I guarantee-”

“Sh! - _Er_ \- COME FUCK THIS!”

“AYE, ‘RAK, SEND US YER BEST!”

_“MA-AM!”_

We whirled around - kicking up dust, salt, and a dropped cigarette - to lock glares with Viorica from her spot halfway through the hatch.

_So much for the ‘No Bitchy Middle Siblings Allowed’ sign, Jo._

_Told you we needed those floor tacks._

“THEY’RE DOING _IT_ AGAIN!”

A distant _“YOU TELL THEM I SAID TO STOP!”_ called up from below.

She smirked, coming through fully and dusting herself off. “Mam said to stop.”

“It’s _cultural!”_ I tried to protest, shuffling the book off to the side with a heel.

“You _know_ mam doesn’t like it. We’re supposed to be in good standing with the mainland, and they _really_ don’t like... This sort of thing. It makes things harder for the rest of us.”

“The mainland’s full of cunts, then. Talking with demons doesn’t mean you’re out to end the world.”

“And that kind of talk is why _some_ people don’t get out from east of the Salve.”

_Apathetic bitch._

Jo shifted the chair to one arm, swiping a quick hand in front of my chest to hold me off.  “The vampyre don’t even fuck with ‘ol ‘Rak ‘r the infernal, y’all know that well as I do.”

“You should _especially_ know better than to be doing this, Josephina.”

"'S Jo."

"I'm just saying, with your father and all."

“Ol' man's fine with it."

She huffed, caught in the fact that she didn't know Ikenna enough to disprove it, then took to sizing us both up like she was some damn policing zealot herself.

“I still think the two of you should leave well enough alone with this type of thing. Do something more _productive._ Going down to the church is _free,_ you know.”

Jo and I looked at each other, and she set down the chair, brows furrowed.

Our shoulders relaxed in some silent agreement.

She looked towards me, nodded, and I returned the declaration.

We both scooped up handfuls of red paint and charged.


	5. Gav

Year 125 5E (14 years old)

* * *

 

Evening light filtered into the attic through the circular window, highlighting specks of dust before they drifted off again.

El and Jo were draped over the old mattress they had drug up here forever ago, now busy digging into crackers and jam. El was covered in soot from some backfired spell during his morning lessons with Nnenna, unwashed and unbothered, while Jo had been quick to toss off the formal clothes that she had had to wear while tagging along with the governor.

 

I flicked through a few pages of the book on the desk in front of me. It was dry and crinkled, same as the rest of the things in the old trunk. Which made a lot of sense. If the "P. C." the trunk belonged to matched the one on the family tree Mam kept in the living room, he’d have been - in El’s words - “Old as balls.”

Deciphering the journal's old Morytanian over the past few months had been one part hobby, one part self-inflicted torment, but I'd managed to squeeze some things out of it. The diagrams helped, and I'd managed to at least copy a few of the designs with junk I found around the house.

“What’d ya think, Gav?”

I blinked, Jo's voice jarring me away from the nothing I'd been sitting with.  “What?”

“Thinkin’ up names fer this fucker here. He’s not likin’ mine.”

“I am not calling myself _Eleazar.”_

I caught a laugh with my hand, earning an extra look of indignance from him. I screwed up my face into a sweet smile, as sincere as I could muster.  “How about Radutu? Like Unchi?”

 _“Uhg,_ then he’ll think I _look up to him._ You know how he is at family reunions. Eating leaves and doing… _Druid things._ Jo, you remember when my dumb ass mentioned summoning to him.”

“That I do. Right fuckin’ mistake on your part.”

“Bet he sticks branches up his ass.”

“Ye’ve done that,”  she pointed out.

I choked on something between a laugh and deep, mortified distress.

“Not in the religious way.”

“Aye, fair. … Oh! How 'bout a title? Y’know. ‘Bulgecrusher Vaughan’?”

“NO!”

_“YES!”_

A knock came from the floor below, like something - a book - had been thrown at the ceiling. Viorica shouted something too muffled to hear.

We tossed a few rude gestures towards her and passed mischievous glances around.

“Bet she’s jus’ still pissy we took those pillowcases.”

“They burned nice.”

“Mhm.”

“How’s about ‘Pillow Prince Vaughan’?”

He made a startled gasp, laughed, and choked on a cracker.

I watched him struggle for a minute, tapping my fingers on my chair, before closing and picking up the journal.

“El. El, _breathe._ What about him?”

Jo patted his back as he tried to catch his breath again, swallowing.  “H- Wh- Who?”

“C. Pictophorous.”

He squinted and made a vague gesture downstairs.  “Isn’t he on the damn… Our _stră-stră-_ ”

_“Stră-stră-stră-”_

They tried their best to count the generations back on their fingers before I cut them off.  “Too many to count.”

“... Fine. The old tapestry bitch.”

“That one. Journal guy.”

His eyes had started to glint with interest.  “It _does_ sound good.”

“Well, ye gotta shorten ‘im up if that’s what yer going with,”  Jo ribbed. “No way ‘n hells am I wingmanin’ with that whole name, ’s too much’ve a fuckin’ mouthful.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, tapping the jam knife against her nose. “You can’t handle mouthfuls any more? Damn shame, you used to be so good at those.”

She wiped at the spot with the back of her hand and licked it off, voice thick with mock-indignance.  “I got a girlfriend, ain’t I? Fuck off. Now see, can’ even remember all that now.”

“It’s only three letters longer than ‘Josephina’.”

“Aye, n’ we all agree mine’s pretentious. How’s about it chopped up, then, like I do fer ‘Jo’? ‘Pict’?”

“Pict is good.”

She nodded solemnly.  “Then Gav gets ta crush a bottle over yer head, since she picked it. ‘N I get half of one for shortenin’ it.”

“He’s not a boat, Jo!”

“Just pour it down my throat, it’s the same thing.”

“Hup!”

_“No!!”_


	6. Pict

Year 126 5E (19 years old)

* * *

 

The chair dug into the back of my head. Resting like this hadn’t been comfortable, but it was better than faking interest through all of this damn dinner.

Jo and I had been separated - she was off at the other end, with her father and the other high officials - while I was stuck between Viorica and some just-as-pity-invited part of the _visiting party._ They were intent on talking around me, and I wasn’t making an effort to get in the way.

Though, the opposite hadn’t really worked out either.

I’d tried everything from sliding under the table to making pleas for the restroom.

_And cried wolf one too many damn times on that excuse._

Viorica nudged at my shin with her heel, tilting her chin in a gesture that I knew meant _‘straighten up and act right around Jo's company’._

I countered with a forced, sweet smile that told her I was absolutely not about to do that.

 _‘Behave,’_  she mouthed.

 _“Kiss my ass,”_  I said much more audibly.

We both looked towards our mother, but she seemed intent on ignoring us, too busy pretending to be someone from 'upper society'.

_Only here because you butted in on my friend-invitation._

It was my turn to serve the smug look. Vio huffed, momentarily defeated, and I sunk back into my sulk as pretentious and insincere conversation drifted through my ears.

_“My, aren’t these delicious?”_

_“Well, hasn’t little Ceril just grown so much since I last saw him?”_

_“We MUST get together more often.”_

_“Surely you must have concerns about the influx of new citizens from Morytania?”_

_“I’d suggest you watch what you say about that, dear. The governor's very firmly in support of that sort of thing.”_

And on.

And on.

And on.

I groaned and looked over to see if Jo was faring the same, but she was facing the other way and gesturing animatedly with a spoon, caught in an undoubtedly better conversation.

_‘Rak, take me now, motherfucker._

But no portals to Pandemonium opened up, no matter how hard I squinted.

Elvarg, or at least a depiction of her, stared down at us from the banners hung across the auditorium rafters. During other visits, I’d always gotten the feeling that she was mocking me, and the way the light played off the draft-blown cloth made the thought especially pointed tonight.

_Not that you’re less stuck here than I am, you nasty sulfuric ass._

_At least you can swim away sometimes. Got the better end of the deal._

I exhaled and took a long, slow sip from my glass. I’d brought my own, just out of sheer self preservation, and the low buzz of alcohol told me it had been a good call.

Hopefully it was deep enough to last me through the night.

Our original plan had been to sneak out early, steal some wine from the larder, swing by my house and get Gav, then sneak out to one of the fields and have an actually good night.

_But that doesn’t really seem likely now. Maybe she drank up too fast and forgot._

I looked to either side - Ardougne brat eating open-mouthed to my left, Viorica fake-laughing to my right, no surprises - and cast a baleful look up to the box seats high up on the walls.

A man in black stared back at me.

I coughed up some of my drink at the sight of him, startled, and leaned forward to try and get a better look.

He was on the higher row on the left, middle booth, standing close to the high railing. Or, what was _supposed_ to be high. He made it seem more like a formality than a safety measure.

_Wait._

I took another quick sip, not daring to look away. He was standing beyond the glow of the light, where the shadows covered everything untouched by the small lights in his eyes.

_… Old ‘Rak?_

God of chaos or not, he definitely didn’t seem human. And he was definitely eyeing me up.

I plucked up a spoon from my allotment of silverware and held it by the bowl end, pressing the joint against my lips before running my tongue up along the handle.

He shifted.

_Could be us._

“That’s not how you use that.”

The damn brat jarred me out of focus. What was his name? Sorrel? Ceril? I frowned, making no attempt to hide my irritation.  “What?”

“You’re supposed to put food on it,”  he continued derisively.

_Right. Guess we're dealing with Viorica’s future husband here._

“Dinner looks heinous. Thank you for that.”

His face screwed up in confusion, so I had to take another chug and enlighten him.

“It’s catering to your bland, tasteless asses.”

“But you haven’t even touched it?”

“I have eyes. This spoon has better things to do up my ass than it does on that plate. Get it nice and wide.”

He started to respond, probably either mortified or appalled, but Viorica’s voice cut in over top of it.

“El’s making _those_ sorts of comments to Lady Carnillean’s son.”

Our mother gasped, then snapped to her feet and had my jacket collar in hand before I could steel myself. She bent down to level with my ear as our section of the table went quiet, her voice edged with a familiar coldness that made the hair on my neck prickle.

The words she spat weren't distinct - I'd heard them too often, heard that tone even more - and they fuzzed into indistinct scorn as I averted my eyes and nodded along. 

She finally finished and made a gesture for the door. The point was clear. 'Go home.'

I started to step away from the table, eyeing the box. The figure was still there, but he'd turned, heading for the exit. I watched as he made a gesture with a thickly gloved hand, then vanished. 

_Yeah, I'm coming._

 


	7. Pict

_Big bastard’s probably there by now._

Blood coursed through my ears as I sprinted upstairs, shouting for me to move my ass, to get my ass _moved,_ and I'd been completely swept up by the tide. I started unbuttoning my shirt as soon as I left Gav’s room - just barely kept it on - and if all went well the pants would be next to go.

I leapt for the dangling cord as I got close, and after a few failed attempts the latch pulled free with a familiar groan, dropping the stairs. I clambered up two at a time and pushed through the slat cover, head thick with the girth his height had teased.

The attic was dark as pitch, quiet and cool and far off from the rest of the world - more so than usual.

I stepped forward, eyes strained as I felt my way along. Rain pattered more clearly against the roof here, sparking a shiver up my already excited spine.

I couldn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean much right now. A greeting, some kind of prod for attention, caught in my throat until a squeak forced it out.

_“Heus?”_

The hatch clattered like it had been kicked closed, and I stumbled around to find the cause.

The voice that drifted over to me was smooth, velveteen, draped in the fluttering of cloth that I could just barely find in the moonlight trickling through the window.

 _“Salvē.”_ Formal.

The same two pinpricks of light I had seen before - yellow, orange, specked with green - blinked into existence. Cold, and thrilling, in a way I wasn’t _quite_ sure I’d survive.

_But damn, it’d be worth it._

The shape of a glove extended. An urge pulled at the back of my mind, quiet, suggestive, screaming with anticipation.

Quivering, I braced to scratch the itch.


	8. Jo

It wasn’t too hard to slip out once Pict had gotten himself free.

Tossed some cock-n-bull story about being exhausted, and that was enough for the old man, whether or not he actually bought it. I figured us three were about set for a good night of shit-talking and shit-facing.

But circling out around the back way, down a few city levels to the book shop, then through to Gav’s room netted me the information that the little bastard had reported in to her:

  1. He'd gotten in trouble for explaining to some dipshit kid that he would gladly widen his ass with a spoon, which I guess explained _that_ whole ordeal.
  2. He was apparently now looking for some damn _“Prospective good time who may or may not be Zamorak himself”_   that he was convinced was hiding out in their attic with all our occult shit.



Gav had been laughing about that when I left to go drag his horny ass back.

I wasn’t.

_Dumbass fucker. Should know damn well better than to go summonin’ shit on yer damn lonesome._

_We been over this._

A clatter from upstairs caught my ear, throwing a wrench in my focus.

_’S the attic slats, ain’t it?_

I ducked back into the shop front, snatched up the stool from behind the counter, then hefted it along to the second floor. It was dim, but the way around the place was straightforward enough that it wasn’t a problem.

_Slapping noises mean goin’ back. Anything else gets ‘em the calvary._

The drop-down stairs were still left hanging, but the cover had fallen back into place. Something he knew better than, assuming he didn’t want anyone coming up after them.

_Not out of the question, knowin’ him, but still._

I heard a voice, low and indistinct, but nothing to suggest that Pict was in there with whoever-it-was.

_Quick peek, ‘n if it’s just from him bein’ gagged and happy, ‘s fine._

I tried not to let the hatch groan as I pushed against it. My eyes met the hem of a dark robe first, just out of arm’s reach. I watched as Pict’s boots kicked off the ground beyond it, softly choking in a way that told me that it wasn’t his own effort keeping himself up.

The voice kept on, practically crooning, and I caught the word _‘pet’._

I made a split decision.

_He’ll forgive me if I’m interruptin’ what he wants._

“Oi!”

The hatch crashed open as I sprang through, chair clattering as I swung it up, caught my other hand on it, and brought it around in an arc against the demon’s side. It struck hard enough to crack, and he woofed, startled.

Wasn’t going to fool myself into thinking it was a pained sound, but the knowledge that he could at least feel it goaded me on.

“Let ‘im down!”

In a single quick motion Pict was tossed, limp and unceremonious, to the side and out of sight. I tightened my grip on the improvised weapon.

_Not ideal, but ‘least he’s outta the way._

The demon turned, eyes glowering from dark sockets sunk in a decaying head. I let out a shout, slamming the chair up into his ridged chin and getting another grunt wrung out of him for my efforts.

On the third swing he caught on, wrenching it out of my hands like it was some kind of toy, just to bring it crashing back into my chest. Something cracked, the sharp pain that sprawled up my ribs screaming the fact that it hadn't been the chair. I was on the floor, my head pressing hard against the splintered edges of the slat cover.

Then he was gone.

I lay there, pained, dazed, breathless, stars swimming across my eyes until I found my way back to my feet.

“Pict?”

Blood pounded in my ears, clouding the edges of my vision.

 _“Pict?”_  I hissed, stumbling for the direction I’d seen his silhouette fall.

I couldn't make out a gasp, or a choke, or even the soft breath of someone lying unconscious.

I pulled the matchbox from my pocket with shaking fingers and struck one, shoving aside boxes, ignoring the daggers in my ribs and desperately looking for a body that wasn’t there.

_“Pict!”_


	9. Jo

Year 135 5E (28 years old)

* * *

 

I tried to untangle myself from the covers I’d cocooned up in, eyes bleary and still half-crusted with sand. After what felt like years of struggle, I gave up and hauled them off with me as I rolled out the bed.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,”  I grumbled at the knocks coming from the living room door. They were broken up-like, maybe from whoever it was trying to be polite, but the sound wasn’t very welcome this damn long before the sun hit down.

“Jus’ a day in bed after dockin’s all I’m askin’ fer. Motherfucker.”

_“Nice n’ quiet, Catherby is!”  - Aye, sure. Cram it up yer ass, salesman. Useless gob. Been settled a week ‘n already gettin’ door-gawkers._

One hand wiggled out from beneath the mess of blankets and pawed for the doorknob. It was cold to the touch, and I filed off an irritated mental note to get some sealant at the store, and block off that damn draft slipping in through the gaps in the frame.

The rusted hinges complained as I tugged against them, but eventually relented. I jostled the door open. Nobody greeted me at face level, and at first I took that as a welcome sign that I could go back to bed.

“Jo?”

The cadence jarred something. I wrenched the door back open as hard as I’d just been knocked awake.

Sharp features. Blue eyes. Same haggard expression.

There was a beard, now, but he had the height. And the lilt, the strung out and malnourished look.

_“Pict?”_

He came willingly as I barreled into him, shedding the blanket enough to get my arms free and around him. His chest was heaving, or maybe it was mine, or both of ours at once. He was shivering more, and I hoisted him inside enough to kick the door closed. I pressed my forehead in against his hair, and cradled his head close.

_“Daft- bastard- fucking- thought ye’d- fuck, can’t be just-”_

He’d started to cry, softly, relieved, and the sound was enough to rip out my own walls.

_You’re still alive._

I tried to start a half-dozen quips, and heard him struggle for his own.

We both failed, and gave in to sobbing laughter.


End file.
